


Adherent Risk

by Rysler



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bisexual Patterson, F/F, bisexual jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rysler/pseuds/Rysler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patterson and Jane for some bedtime fun--I mean angst--I mean fun? Angsty fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adherent Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1x9.

Patterson is scrutinizing me as I lie in her bed, on top of her quilt, in her tiny, undecorated, too-new apartment. Her walls are as unadorned as my mind. I take note, but I don’t say it. It would make us both sad. 

Her gaze is not uncomfortable. I mean, it helps that her hands are sliding over my naked body. They’re not tracing tattoos. They’re tracing curves and planes and valleys. She sees me. 

I see her seeing me. That’s why I let her in. 

That’s why she lets me in, too.

I can’t say that people treat me any differently because of the tattoos, because I don’t know. But that’s what I am. A walking tattoo. People stare at me in the street. Kurt squints at my wrist, or at the back of my neck. Trying to decipher me. He’s the only one who knew me but he doesn’t know me anymore.

Patterson does. 

She knows that when she brushes her thumb over my nipple like that, I’ll respond. My breath hitches. I search for her gaze. If she brushes the other one I’ll grab her hand and press it to my skin. She likes unlocking me.

The hem of her tee shirt brushes lightning against my thigh. She doesn’t like to be totally naked unless she’s in bed under the covers. I don’t mind my own nudity. I’m not modest. If I ever was, it was trained out of my long ago. The muscle memory of exhibition is there. Maybe when I was a child…

Who knows. 

The contrast between my skin and her shirt reminds me that Patterson should be innocent. She works in a building made of bullet-proof glass, surrounded by men with guns, and it’s not enough to keep her safe. Or anyone she loves. She doesn’t have the world-weariness I see in Edgar or Tasha. But I know one day I will see it. It’ll break my heart.

It’s only fair. I’ve broken hers. To her I’m a broken thing. She strives to put me back together, and then I break again. I’m a scattered puzzle and she’s terrified she’ll lose some of the pieces under the bed or down a sewer grate. She holds me with both hands, with her mind, with her computer. I’m inside all of her. 

She’s saved my life so many times already. What’s that saying? Once you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them forever?

I tell Patterson. “You know that saying? About when you save someone’s life?” It’s funny that I remember that, but not my name. I don’t remember Taylor Shaw, but I know what it means to save someone’s life.

Her face changes to understanding. Of course she understands everything. Her mind is the opposite of mine. Full and open, not empty and closed. 

She wraps me up tight in her arms. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She’s making a pledge. I am her responsibility. I have been since day one. Since zero hour. The birth of Jane Doe. 

Patterson was the first person I trusted. The first person I saw who saw a person back. Just her gaze relieves of my haunts. For a moment we lie together, her chin tucked against my shoulder. Then she runs her fingers across my belly. 

She likes to stay on task.

I consider her words. The promise that isn’t just for me, it’s for all the Davids and Kurts that we’ve had and lost. For Tasha and Edgar and Mayfair. I love them all. That warm feeling in my chest that Patterson evokes, it blankets all of us. 

That’s what Oscar doesn’t understand. Whatever I was angry about before, it’s gone. Maybe I was just filled with hate before. Maybe that’s all I had inside me after they took me from my parents. If I did, the hate is gone. There’s just Patterson, smelling impossibly of roses and vanilla. 

She lowers her lips to my breast. 

I don’t totally understand her fascination with them, but I melt under her touch. She squeezes. I sigh.

“I think when I was Taylor Shaw, I was straight,” I say.

Patterson laughs. She lifts up from my skin and smirks. “Bet you weren’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hundred bucks,” she said. Her hand moves tantalizingly down my hip. I think of Oscar. I think of her. I begin to doubt myself. 

“Dreams don’t count, right?” I ask.

“I agree. It has to be a verified lover.” 

Patterson qualifies. I’ve let her inside. I’ve let so many people inside. I want them to tell me what they find. She tells me, “Nothing bad,” and I almost believe her.

She sits up, kneeling next to my side. I sit up, too, grunting at the pull in my back. There’s a tingle, too, next to my left shoulder blade. Patterson says I have nerve damage from some of the tattoos. 

She says the that tingle is because they cut off my wings. She says she’s never met anyone like me. I suppose no one has.

I cup her cheek in my hand. She smiles at as if nothing could be wrong. She takes my other hand in her own, caressing my fingers. I smile back, tentatively. She twists a little to kiss my palm. It feels good.

“You feel good,” I say. 

“So do you.” She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. Self-conscious. She tosses her head and sends my hand away. She adds, “It’s almost as if…”

“I know,” I say. 

“It doesn’t hurt when I’m with you,” she says.

I lean in to kiss her. When I twist, I can bring her into a hug. She presses close enough that I can feel her heartbeat as her tongue swipes across my mouth. I let her in, as if I had a choice in the matter. 

We’re not in love. I have my secrets. She has her flirtations. I can only give my heart. I can’t build something on solid ground with her. There’s no such thing. But she looks at me and the scariness goes away. 

I’ll do the same for her. It makes me happy that I can. It makes me happy to feel happy.

I run my hands up her back, folding into her hair as we kiss. She’s still holding my hand. Her free one dances across my thigh. 

I ease her down to the bed and crouch over her. She’s completely open under me. Her face shines with trust. Her fingers squeeze my fingers. I feel protective so I cover her. Her leg comes up between mine. We move together in pleasure and freedom.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up with my face mashed into a pillow and her hand on my butt. Then we’ll go into work and solve a tattoo and save the world.

We’ll try to make up for all we’ve done.

END

**Author's Note:**

> The title is an anagram.


End file.
